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Neither of them say anything after Rafaela and Rubel turn away and leave Clare and Jean with their orders and new armor, but a heaviness in the forest air remains.
The North.
Clare’s mind races as she instinctively looks in that direction, as if she can see through the trees towards the icy lands and see Raki there, if only she looks hard enough. As if she would be able to instinctively feel the presence of the closest thing she has to a family again. She has been left behind before - it’s not quite the same, but she remembers cutting her soft human feet on a sharp forest floor and running forward anyway, chasing pale hair and a silver blade. She imagines that Raki would look at her just like she looked at Teresa whenever she turned back, if there was the chance. What did Teresa say? Like a little duckling …
“We should change,” Jean says, her voice serious but soft. She does not know the name “Raki,” nor does she ask - but she knows Clare, and the way her gaze looks at Clare and only Clare says she is thinking about no one else.
“… You’re right.” Clare reaches for the bundle of clothing and armor that Jean is holding out, but she doesn’t take it right away. Instead, she looks past it, following Jean’s bare arm up to the hem of her borrowed cloak, frayed, dark fabric the only barrier between Jean and the forest.
Jean remains still, letting Clare’s eyes roam, and does not rush her to take the clothing. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Clare says, after a moment. Jean continues to wait until Clare’s eyes flicker up, over her shadowed, bare torso beneath the cloak and up to her face. All Clare sees in Jean’s expression is curiosity. That, and the inexplicable trust in her silver eyes that’s lingered there ever since Clare wrapped her arms around Jean’s neck and refused to let her die. Clare told her that her life debt has been repaid, but if Jean insists on following her and looking at her like that, so openly, so intensely, then maybe she should … “How is your body?”
The only indication that Clare has surprised her is the way the edges of Jean’s eyes widen for a brief moment and then soften ever so slightly. Clare doubts she would have noticed when they first escaped Riful, but in the few days that passed since she has found herself watching Jean just as closely as Jean watches her.
“Completely fine, thanks to you,” Jean says, and Clare knows she means it, even if the battle against Dauf and encounter with Riful brought them all to the limits of their abilities. Jean lifts her other arm and flexes her hand in the same way that she did when Clare first brought her back from her Awakening. The motion lifts the other side of the cloak, unabashedly exposing her front to Clare. Miraculously, even with an almost entirely complete Awakening, Jean remains treated - the everlasting wound splitting her from the center remains sewn shut. “Maybe even stronger than before.”
“That’s good,” Clare says, absently. She finally takes the bundle of clothing and armor from Jean, though she doesn’t move to start changing. It was miraculous. She doesn’t think she could do it again, but her mind lingers on that one moment - the moment when she perfectly aligned her yoki with Jean. A moment when it felt like they were so close she couldn’t tell where Jean ended and she began. Light so bright it blinded, the fire of Jean’s unbreakable willpower engulfing her, her soul so sharp it severed her body’s newly Awakened instincts and kept her human mind in control, but so soft and warm in the way she opened herself without hesitation and let Clare pull her back from past the brink.
Maybe it’s Jean. As she is now, Clare isn’t half as good as Galatea at controlling yoki. So maybe it is Jean, after all, who is the miraculous one -
“See for yourself.”
Jean speaks quietly, her ever-calm tone nearly lost to the rustle of the wind through the thick canopy above them, and slowly reaches out for Clare. Slim, strong fingers wrap around the leather covering Clare’s wrist and guide her palm beneath the cloak, pressing over the center of Jean’s sternum, between her breasts, just above the wound cutting through her center. The stitches are cold beneath Clare’s hand, but Jean is warm. Her heart beats a strong, steady rhythm. Her yoki thrums vibrantly just beneath the surface. Sharp. Solid.
Warm.
Jean is watching Clare with that stoic gaze of hers when Clare looks up again, and then the corner of Jean’s lips lift in a little smile. Clare hasn’t known Jean long - didn’t know her personally before finding her in Riful’s dungeon - but she has the feeling that she is one of very few lucky enough to see that expression.
Jean’s yoki shifts unsteadily and reaches out for Clare in an echo of what she did before. It isn’t graceful or even gentle, as most offensive warriors’ yoki manipulation tends to be, but perhaps it’s because they had accepted each other fully before that Clare’s yoki instinctively opens to Jean. There is no urgency this time, no threat of Awakening or an Abyssal One looming over them, and the connection between them blooms bright and hot. It sets Clare’s nerves alight and sends sensation thrumming just beneath her skin, but the comfort of Jean’s presence so close to her - in mind, body, and soul - washes away any trepidation she might have felt.
Like this, she can sense Jean’s feelings. Gratitude so strong that it radiates from her in waves. Loyalty, burning so brightly.
Something warmer. Deeper. The briefest memory of agony so deep it clawed at the inside of her marrow and through all of her mixed, impure entrails before being washed away by relief enough to make her sob, if there was the time for it - and then the sight of Clare with her arms around Jean’s neck, light hair framing her face like a halo in the desolate ruins of what should have been Jean’s grave. In that moment, Jean looked at Clare in the same way Clare always looked up to the statue of the Twin Goddesses.
“Now you know,” Jean says, voice barely a whisper, and suddenly she is so close that her breath ghosts against Clare’s lips. The scent of blood and dust from the ruins has faded over the past days, and now only the smell of sunlight and the oak tree Jean rested against a few hours ago lingers in the scant space between them. “My life is yours. I am your sword, your shield, and anything else you desire.”
“Anything?” Clare repeats, the word escaping her before she realizes she’s spoken. Her voice comes out in a whisper, too, and she is bestowed another rare smile. The sunlight streaming from the trees catches in Jean’s silver eyes, like the shimmering surface of crystal clear water.
“Anything,” Jean says again, and the sentiment thrums between them in the way her yoki swells with emotion. Clare feels a tug in her chest and warmth spreading to her face, and it must spill into her own yoki, because Jean’s smile remains.
Instead of speaking again, Clare lets out a little huff of a laugh - Jean won’t ever listen to her when she says the debt is paid, will she? - and lets her eyes fall closed as she leans in. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t shut her eyes and give in to comfort like this, not with what she is, what she has to do, what she’s done.
But as her lips press against Jean’s, the answering crescendo of happiness from Jean’s yoki washes away whatever doubts lingered in her mind. The kiss is soft and chaste, calm and restrained in a way that’s so very like Jean, but her yoki roils with heat. Clare feels it, too, sparks of pleasure igniting inside her, zipping through the bond between them, racing through her veins and up her spine, heat pooling in her chest and in her core. She shudders when Jean groans against her lips, the sound reverberating through her chest beneath Clare’s hand, her fingers closing around Clare’s and holding onto her like she’s something precious. Something falls to the ground and Jean’s other hand rests at Clare’s waist, hand covering her hip and thumb smoothing over her side so gently that it makes Clare’s eyes sting. They’re warriors. They’re monsters. They’re meant to be as strong and unbreakable as the claymores they’re named after, weapons in the form of women, not kissed gently beneath golden sunlight and touched and held like a treasure.
Jean leans back, breaking the kiss, but doesn’t move away. Instead, she rests her forehead against Clare’s and looks into her eyes, watching as Clare fights a rising flush to her cheeks and tries to remember how to breathe.
“You are the miracle to me,” Jean says, still in a whisper, as if the moment between them is gossamer and she can’t bear to speak too loud, lest it break. She must have seen Clare’s thoughts. “I would not have lived without you. I am yours in my entirety.”
“You already said that,” Clare says, trying to sound like she’s chastising Jean. She fails miserably; her yoki won’t let her disguise the joy that Jean’s vows bring her, not when they’re connected like this.
“Then I -”
Clare senses Jean about to repeat herself a third time and leans up again, interrupting her with another kiss - a quicker one, this time, pulling back after she feels Jean’s yoki fluctuate with surprise. This time, she can feel one of her own rare smiles playing on her lips and she doesn’t miss how Jean’s eyes flicker down to it, looking at Clare in something embarrassingly close to wonder.
“Put on your armor, Number 9,” Clare says, and this time she doesn’t even try to hide the way her voice softens. She leans her forehead against Jean’s again before pressing lightly against Jean’s chest. Jean obliges, taking a small step back and squeezing Clare’s hand before letting go and picking up her dropped clothing. She keeps her eyes trained on Clare even as she does so, as if she is loath to look away for even a moment. Clare just lets her smile remain on her lips as she tries to burn the warmth of this moment into herself - her heart, her mind, her soul - as if it will keep her life burning in the cold of the North. She can read between the lines. She knows what they are being asked to do.
Her voice is still gentle when she speaks again, carefully setting her armor down and unfastening the clasps of her leathers. Jean catches her eye as she speaks, reaching out to brush Clare’s hair out of her face with a feather-light touch, an echoing hint of sadness in her expression.
Clare’s smile turns bittersweet, but she leans into Jean’s touch. Just one more stolen moment. “We have a war to fight.”